


to see my reflection in your eyes

by Secondprinces (CrimeBrulee)



Series: ChrobinWeek2020 [1]
Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Alternate Universe, Chrobin - Freeform, Chrobinweek2020, I tried to write a fairytale, M/M, Plegian Prince Robin Gives Me Life, Short thing short thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:20:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27130328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrimeBrulee/pseuds/Secondprinces
Summary: Chrobin Week 2020 Day 1:  FairytalePlegian prince Robin cannot see his own reflection.
Relationships: Chrom/My Unit | Reflet | Robin
Series: ChrobinWeek2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1980245
Comments: 5
Kudos: 52





	to see my reflection in your eyes

**Author's Note:**

> I tried to write my own little fairytale for this prompt. <3 It's been a while since I've written any Chrobin. I apologize that it isn't super fancy or long, I'm exhausted from work lately.

The stars are Grima’s eyes.

It was an old saying; Robin does not remember the first time he’s heard it. But the stars are Grima’s eyes, slathered across the heavens, boring down on everything. 

Mirrors hold Grima’s gaze, is another. Every passing reflection—in mirrors, the glint in the angle of a sword, a ripple in an otherwise smooth pond—is Grima’s stare locked onto your likeness. Linger too long and he will swallow you whole.

But Robin has no reflection, and he has never seen his own face.

“Of course you do. Don’t be foolish,” Validar says. His voice scrapes like wind across the deserts of Plegia, low, harboring an articulate growl. He comes up behind where Robin stands in front of a floor to ceiling mirror in the throne room. “I see you right there. A fine prince you are growing to be.”

Robin flinches as one hand rests on his shoulder and the other traces the line of his jaw. He can see Validar in the mirror, but not himself. He forces a chuckle and glances up at Validar. “Whatever you say, father.”

He catches a glint in Validar’s eye in the candlelight. The reflection there is not himself, but of Grima. Six pairs of red eyes cut into pale cheekbones. 

Robin sees Grima in the eyes of everyone he speaks to—

The cook as she brings him his daily rations, the tailor as he adorns Robin in royal finery (the black silks and delicate gold jewelry befit of a Plegian prince), the attendant who brings him scented oils for his baths, the servants who scurry from room to room.

Every night, Robin presses his fingers into the hollows of his cheeks and down his face, as if checking for extra eyes.

Every night, he peers into the water basin and sees only the ceiling reflected back. 

And every night, he wanders the canyons of Plegia, wrapped in his blue and purple cloak, caught in the gaze of thousands of stars as the wind howls through the rocks.

“Look at me, as I am forced to look at you,” he wants to scream to the sky. He stares at the stars, but knows they do not see him back. What is he to a god? A plaything? A vessel, to be discarded like a clay cup when finished? To Grima he is nothing. To Robin, Grima is everything, whether he likes it or not.

Robin draws his hood up as he passes through one of the border towns. It’s late, but music peels through the street, and the hum of a marketplace envelops him as he wades into the crowd. Wooden stalls overflowing with fruit and beaded clothing sprawl haphazardly through the square, and the aroma of pies and meat tarts intermingle with heady perfume and the cool of the night air. 

He’s wandered a little too far, Robin realizes. 

“Young man, can I help you find something?” 

Robin jumps. He’s stumbled into a stall of small wooden sculptures. He glances at the shopkeep, an older man with a balding head. He shudders as he sees Grima reflected in his eyes.

“No,” Robin says. Grima’s face no longer startles him as it did in his childhood. “I’m just looking.” To emphasize his point, he takes a sculpture in his hand to stare down at it. It’s smooth, stained a glossy brown. The grain of the wood twists and knots with the curves of its shape though Robin can’t discern what that might be. “Lovely work.” He sets it down and steps out of the stall. 

Robin wanders until the stars fade into the haze of dawn and pink seeps into the horizon. The sand has long ceded to sparse grass which has grown thicker and longer mile by mile. By the time Robin stops, he’s trudging through flowers.

Robin stifles a yawn with the back of his hand, blinking blearily at the first fingers of light. Only upon stopping did he realize his feet ached. Fatigue had settled heavy in his limbs and his chest. 

The grass is much more inviting than sand, and Robin settles down onto it, pulling his cloak more tightly around himself. He’s asleep before he realizes it, nestled in the flowers like a second cloak. 

He comes to in the midafternoon, to blurry shapes hovering over him.

“There are better places to take a nap than on the ground you know—Give me your hand--”

Robin squints, grimacing as the sun assaults his vision. He can make out a crop of blue hair as he blinks back tears—and then a hand. Robin swallows and takes the hand as if on instinct. He’s pulled to his feet.

His eyes lock with blue ones.

“I am Chrom, leader of the Shephards. What’s your name?”

Robin opens his mouth to speak, but he catches a glimpse of the reflection in Chrom’s eyes.

It’s not Grima, but a Plegian man with short white hair and dark eyes. 

“Robin,” Robin breathes. “It’s Robin.”


End file.
